Murder Most Maine (13 page)

“You never mentioned her to me,” I said. “Why not?”

John sighed and leaned back into the cushions, his eyes fixed on the window behind me. “I don’t ask about your past relationships, do I? Besides,” he added, “it was just a summer thing. Puppy love, I guess you’d call it.”

I tried not to flinch at the word
love
.

“Anyway, it was no big deal. We were both kids.”

“You called her ‘sweetheart’ yesterday morning,” I said, before I could help myself.

He flushed slightly. “I was trying to help her. She was obviously upset. She’s going through a rough time right now.” His green eyes slowly shifted to mine. “I’m sorry if you found it hurtful.”

I sat quietly for a moment, trying to sort my emotions out. So far, I wasn’t getting the warm and fuzzy feeling I’d been hoping for. Was John involved somehow in Dirk’s death? Even if he wasn’t—was there any way to fix this weirdness that had sprung up between us? Or had I already lost him to Vanessa?

“I saw you arguing with Tom last night,” I said, failing to mention that I’d also seen him with Vanessa. Or that I’d sat on my bed with my eyes glued to his front door for more than an hour, feeling like I was about to puke. “Why?” I asked.

John’s eyes grew suddenly guarded. “Tom has made some … poor decisions lately.”

“Like poisoning Dirk DeLeon?” I asked.

John drew back, startled. “No,” he said shortly. “Nothing to do with Dirk—Tom didn’t even know him.”

He’d met him, though. And he knew he was Vanessa’s maybe-boyfriend, I thought.

“I was trying to get him to think about what he was doing to his life,” John said. “His … actions have put his marriage in jeopardy. Not to mention his standing on the island. I was advising him to back off for a bit, really think about his decisions.”

“Out of your feelings for his family? Or because you were interested in Vanessa yourself?” I asked, then wondered if I should go back home and tape my mouth shut. It was like I’d come down with an acute case of Tourette’s syndrome on the short walk over here.

“So that’s what this is about. You think I want to leave you for Vanessa?” he asked softly.

I shrugged, unable to meet his eyes.
Or that you were somehow mixed up with what happened to Dirk.
“The thought had crossed my mind,” I admitted.

“There’s nothing between us. Honest,” he said. “I was comforting her, Natalie. She’s been through a tough time, and she’s got no one here. And she has to shoulder the retreat by herself.”

Poor Vanessa
, I thought. Rather uncharitably, I know, but I couldn’t help myself. “So you’re her rock, then. Just a good friend,” I said, trying not to sound sarcastic.

“Exactly,” he said, looking relieved. He moved closer to me, bridging the gap on the couch between us. Then he reached out to touch my chin, pulling my face up slightly to look at him.
Just like he did with Vanessa
.

“That was twenty years ago, Natalie,” he said, staring into my eyes. Despite the long winter, his skin was still nut brown, and his sandy hair was still streaked in places, bleached by the sun. He was incredibly handsome—and despite my anger, something inside me tugged with yearning for this gorgeous, intense, incredibly sexy man. “This is now,” he whispered, making goose bumps spring up on my arms.

Then he leaned forward and kissed me, slowly. His mouth was warm against mine, and his woodsy, masculine scent enveloped me.

My heart was pounding when he released me—partially from desire, but partially because I still wasn’t entirely convinced that his feelings for Vanessa were platonic. And, if I was being completely honest with myself, partially because of the tendril of fear that had taken root in my heart.
I couldn’t have been dating a murderer
, I told myself.

When I’d caught my breath, I asked, “There’s nothing between you and Vanessa?” My eyes searched his for an answer.

“We’re old friends,” he said simply.

“What about Vanessa and Tom?” I asked. “Are they just ‘old friends’ too?”

John sucked in his breath, a pained look on his face. “Tom is still living a fantasy,” he said. “He and Vanessa parted ways a long time ago, but I’m not sure he ever really gave up on her.”

“I heard they’d been having an affair,” I said.

He flinched a little. At least I thought he did—but maybe I was just looking for it. “He and Lorraine have a lot of things to work out,” he said judiciously.

Based on the hungry look I’d seen in Tom’s eyes when he looked at Vanessa, I had to agree with John.

The question was, was Tom the only one still carrying a torch for the island’s summer seductress?

When I returned to
the kitchen a few minutes later, my mind was whirling and my heart still pumping from that long kiss. But my doubts still lingered. Had the police really taken John off the case just because he and Vanessa were old friends? Or was it because they had had a more recent, intimate association? I never had asked him why Vanessa was at his carriage house the day she’d arrived. Or last night, for that matter.

Although I was sure I knew what his answer would be, anyway. “Catching up on old times,” he’d say. Or “lending moral support.” I tried to think positive thoughts, but found myself tearing open packages of ground turkey for tonight’s low-fat white chili with a bit more aggression than usual.

Biscuit, who is always on hand when there’s food to be had, sniffed out the prospect of a fresh bit of turkey immediately, sliding through the open kitchen door and meowing until I broke off a chunk and handed it to her. Then I dumped the rest into a pan sprayed with a tiny amount of olive oil and turned the burner on medium.

I was digging in the pantry for cumin and coriander when voices reached me over the sound of sizzling turkey.

“It’s natural to miss her,” said a low, female voice. “I don’t think you ever get over that.”

“I know,” the other voice said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m thinking about her so much. It’s like losing an arm, or a leg or something—missing her is always there. Every minute of every day.”

I sidled over to the door and peeked through it. It was Cat who was crying, slumped in one of the dining room chairs; beside her, concern in her eyes, was Boots.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Boots said, opening her arms to hug her friend.

“It’s like a wound that never goes away,” Cat snuffled into Boots’s shoulder. “And I thought I knew how to fix it, but … it turns out it hasn’t helped at all. I still feel hollow inside.”

“Shhh,” Boots said, stroking Cat’s long brown hair. “It’s okay, Cat. It’s okay.”

The sizzling from the stove grew ominously loud, and I tiptoed away from the door and stirred the turkey, wondering what it was Cat was talking about. Had Dirk’s death brought back memories of her own loss? And who was the person she was talking about?

Turning down the burner, I crept back to the door, hoping to hear more. But the two women were leaving the dining room together, and out of earshot.

___

Cat seemed to have gotten herself back together by the time dinner was served; even though there was a melancholy look in her eyes, they were no longer red-rimmed, and her friends’ efforts to cheer her up seemed to be working.

The turkey chili was a big hit, I was glad to see; I’d served the aromatic green stew over brown rice, accessorizing it with nonfat greek yogurt, reduced-fat cheese, and chopped green onions. I would have preferred full-fat cheese and a hefty helping of guacamole—not to mention more jalapeno, which I’d cut back on in deference to northern taste buds—and a glob of sour cream. My guests thought it was deliciously spicy—Elizabeth, who had put up her notebook for a change, scraped every last bit out of her bowl and looked to be on the verge of asking for seconds. Back in the kitchen, though, I found myself dumping large quantities of hot pepper sauce on my own serving, along with the tiniest sliver of fresh avocado. And maybe just a little bit of real cheddar cheese. After all, I’d worked so hard cooking and cleaning all day, I figured I’d earned it. And if I fit in a little walk after dinner, it would erase
all
the extra calories. At least I hoped so.

When everyone had finished their chili and their melon plates and the kitchen was clean for the third time that day, I decided it was the moment to break free of the inn again. Gwen had come back from the studio and offered to do turndown for me, which I gladly accepted. The walk would help burn off my fat-laden indiscretions; besides, I was curious about the lighthouse renovations.

I grabbed a flashlight and my windbreaker and headed out the kitchen door. After a moment’s deliberation, I decided to ask John if he’d like to join me. Kind of an olive branch offer. And perhaps an opportunity to find out more information, if I was being completely honest with myself. Walking down the path to the carriage house, I breathed in the salt air and admired the fresh green leaves on the beach roses, which I knew would soon be unfurling their gorgeous deep pink flowers. A couple of white strawberry blossoms peeked out from under tufts of grass next to the roses; my mouth watered just thinking of the little red berries that would replace them in June. Low calorie, too!

The carriage house was dark, but the lights were on in the workshop next door. I knocked on the door, and the smell of fresh paint wafted out as he opened it, paintbrush in hand. An endearing splotch of red paint decorated his nose; behind him, I could see a line of toy boats in various stages of completion.

“I was going to ask you if you wanted to go for a walk,” I said, “but it looks like you’re busy.”

“The shop opens next week, and I’m trying to finish up an order,” he said. “Maybe another night?”

“Sure,” I said. We stood there for a moment. “There’s leftover turkey chili in the kitchen,” I said, “if you’re hungry.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“Well.” There was an awkward pause, and John glanced over his shoulder, obviously anxious to get back to his painting. “I guess I’ll be going now,” I said.

“Thanks for stopping by,” John said. “I’d hug you, but …” He opened his arms, showing me the splotches of wet paint on his shirt.

“No problem.”

“Maybe next time,” John said, reaching for the door. His green eyes looked troubled—or was I projecting?

As I turned up the hill alone, I found myself unsettled by the encounter. The feeling trailed me as I climbed the hill; not even the fresh piney scent of the towering trees and the tender green of the blueberry bushes flanking the road could erase it.

___

The lighthouse by night was far eerier than the lighthouse by day, and as I traipsed down the path to Cranberry Point, skirting the area where Dirk’s body had lain—it was easy to see, as the bushes flanking the trail had been trampled—I found myself glancing up at the light uneasily, afraid it might start flashing at any moment.

A chill wind swept off the water as I grew closer to the old building, and the hulking construction equipment surrounding the lighthouse had an abandoned look that added to the brooding atmosphere.

A wire construction fence ringed the area, but it wasn’t locked; I pulled back the gate and slipped through it, picking my way along the rocky area. Down by the water stood the remains of the keeper’s boathouse—although the roof had caved in years ago, the walls were still bravely standing, if slightly tilted. To my immediate left was a roughly square patch of grass and weeds, now flattened by the tread of workers’ boots, where Matilda had told me the keepers used to have a vegetable patch. Behind the grassy swatch stood the keeper’s house, a little two-story building with peeling white paint, half of which had been stripped during the renovation process. The boards in the windows had been replaced with panes of glass that glowed in the last rays of the sunset, giving the appearance that a light burned somewhere inside. Down the hill a little way was the small stone building that the historian had told me was the oil house. For obvious reasons, the keepers stored the flammable substance away from the wooden structure of the house.

I tried the door to the keeper’s house first. As I turned the knob and pushed the door, a gust of wind came off the water, yanking the knob from my hand and slamming the door open with a bang. I hurried inside, flashlight lit, and closed the door behind me. The difference in the air was instantaneous; the mildewed smell of old wooden building replaced the crisp sea air, along with a desolate feeling that gave me the creeps. I panned the flashlight around the room; several of the boards had been stripped from the inside, giving the place a skeletal appearance, and the floor had rotted away in large chunks. A jumble of furniture sat in the corner, covered with plastic sheeting; I could make out the shape of a table and a couple of spindle chairs, as well as the top of an old steamer trunk.

I walked around the two rooms of the downstairs—the one I entered must have been a living area, with a big stone fireplace at the end. That the other room was the kitchen was obvious from the rusted, antique wood cookstove and the blackened paint on the wall and ceiling above it. No sink, of course—the last keeper must have left before indoor plumbing became standard. I hadn’t seen an outhouse outside, but there must have been one at one time. Unless they just squatted between a couple of rocks …

The stairs looked too rickety to risk, so I skipped the tour of the upstairs. I was guessing the hidden room wasn’t to be found in the keeper’s house anyway—unless the upstairs was significantly different from the downstairs, it would be almost impossible to find a place to put it. So I headed back toward the door, surveying the rooms a last time and shaking my head at the vision of the selectmen. I could see the potential here—the antique wood floors were dirty and rotted in places, but what was left of them still gleamed with promise under the beam of light—and with a fresh coat of paint (and finished walls), the rooms could be bright and cheery. And a few well-planted window boxes outside would give new life to the house’s Spartan exterior.

But I had nowhere near the energy—or resources—to even attempt such a huge undertaking.

The cold sea breeze was a welcome relief from the dank air of the keeper’s house, but I knew the fresh air was short-lived; my next stop was the lighthouse itself.

As I traipsed down the short path from the keeper’s house, I stared up at the cylindrical structure. For years it had been painted white with red accents, but the current coat of primer gave it a clean, stark feel.

Like the door to the keeper’s house, the main door to the lighthouse was unlocked. Either the workers figured the gate would be deterrent enough to keep people out, or they’d picked up on the island’s habit of not bothering with things like locks on doors.

The inside of the keeper’s house had been bare, but the lighthouse itself was even emptier; all that the cylinder contained was a set of winding stairs leading to the light above. The same dank smell was here, too, and I had to fight the urge to flee. I wasn’t leaving until I found that hidden room.

The wind whistled through a crack in one of the windows as I climbed the rusty metal stairs, pushing through the hatch at the top and stepping into the round watch room. Matilda had taken me on a tour once, telling me that this was where the keeper kept extra fuel and tended to the lanterns. It had been in this room that Harry had stood watch the stormy night he disappeared, I thought, a shiver passing through me that had nothing to do with the wind whipping by the windows. If he had, though, there were no signs of it; the room’s brick walls were smooth and solid, and the wooden floor, while sound, was bare. The light was still there, though, right in the center, sprouting like a huge flower into the room above, held up by a cylinder in the center.

A small door led to a balcony encircling the light—for keeping the windows surrounding the lamp clean, I knew—but other than that and two small windows, the walls were solid brick. I took a deep breath; there was a hint of a kerosene smell on the air, along with the scent of fresh paint.

But there were no secret rooms to be found.

Another short staircase led to the lantern room above; I climbed it, poking my head through the half-rotted hatch, just in case maybe I’d missed something. The wind whistled through gaps in the windows ringing the room, which was empty except for the huge glass light that was still housed in the middle of the room.

I had seen a light flashing two nights ago. But the lantern was shattered, its metal frame twisted and rusted from the sea air, the floor around it littered with broken glass.

I stared at the broken light, feeling a chill pass over me.

If the lantern was in this condition, what had been the source of the light we’d seen two nights ago?

Fighting the crawling sensation that had started the moment I entered the lighthouse, I glanced around at the smudged, half-broken windows, searching for a hint of a hidden passageway. The jagged panes of glass gaped back at me. There was no room to hide another chamber here. I closed the hatch with a thud; bits of rotted wood rained down on me as I hurried down the short stairway. After another cursory search of the room, I headed back down the main staircase.